


Lay Me over Hemlock Leaves

by idleton



Series: The Gift of Men [3]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF, Masters of Rome - Colleen McCullough
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28573248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idleton/pseuds/idleton
Summary: Outtakes and scenes from the series. Nothing but fluff, smut, fluffy smut, smutty fluff. Doesn’t advance any plot. Doesn’t grow any character. No redeeming quality whatsoever. Just fluff to ease your heart.Each short story can be read by itself. Rating given per chapter (see the index).
Relationships: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa/Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus | Emperor Augustus
Series: The Gift of Men [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029498
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	1. Lay Me over Hemlock Leaves [T]

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline-wise, it’s all over the place. Essentially this is a series of inconsequential shorts that serves as a sounding board for me to understand the characters. As a result they might evolve as the story takes shape, but probably none too drastically. I should actually not post any of these, except that these two don’t get much love and my heart aches for them...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agrippa is condemned.
> 
> Time: circa late 30s BC, after Octavian is proclaimed Augustus.  
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I realised ‘hemlock’ means different things to different people. I mean this:  
> 

‘The name means “falling”, after the vertigo that heralds the onset of its poison.’ he said as he spun around. ‘koneion, to whirl and fall, into a swift and painless death.’

He moved as the wind whispers, touching the snow-white umbels as he passed. ‘And you compared me to it’ he said as he came to a stop a hand’s width from Marcus. His eyes glittered like nimbus clouds.

Marcus smiled, embracing the storm. ‘Hello to you too, Caesar.’ he whispered, arms tightening around the most powerful man in the known world. ‘I missed you.’

Arms looped around him in return, holding him in a veritable prison. ‘Would that I have two or three of you,’ Gaius said, face buried against his throat, ‘so I could always have at least one with me, while still keeping Rome safe.’

A laugh answered him. ‘That might be more trouble than it’s worth, I fear. We would tear each other apart in jealousy.’ Marcus replied, then he sighed in contentment and loosened his hold, so that he might gaze upon the dear face once more and re-learn it anew.

‘I would give my report now, if I thought there was anything you didn’t already know.’ he said, tracing the sharp line of cheek to the corner of silver-grey eyes. Faint crows’ feet were beginning to show; time marched on, and not even Augustus, Divi Filius, could command it to stop. The years had been kind to him however, he was still as beautiful as the day Marcus met him. Although, Marcus thought, should he be wizened and spent, I doubt my heart would ever fail to flutter at the sight of him.

‘And I don’t wish to hear it now, in any case. Not of the barbarians, not of the Senate, not of Transalpine Gaul, not of Rome, the world can wait one week.’ said Gaius, ‘you, on the other hand, are in big trouble right now. Not only were you late, making the Princeps wait an entire night, you had wronged Fortuna somehow, and she cursed you to come upon me as I was mulling over your past crime.’ He was standing on tip-toes now, almost hanging from Marcus’ shoulders as their foreheads touched. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten. You should know what they said about me, “mercy as cold as death”. An apology isn’t going to save you.’

Marcus’ smile grew, he closed his eyes, revelling in their mingled breath. ‘And no apology I was going to give.’ he said. ‘Still in the winter, springing from frost as it thaws. Green and slender stalks, holding aloft white fingers.’ His hands traced the sharp curve of shoulders, the soft strands of hair as he whispered. ‘Perilously fair, death of many a great man.’

‘An invasive and poisonous weed, nigh impossible to kill. You’re not helping your case. Why, I would doubt that you love me, if I could.’ Gaius complained. ‘and since when did you ever speak like this? Have you been learning from Maecenas? He’s better at collecting poets than at poetry, I told you.’

Marcus laughed, joy filled him with every word spoken in that fair voice. ‘I have had a long time to ponder it. It didn’t make sense to me at first, why the hemlock made me think of you. And in my adolescent haste I had uttered it aloud before I could think.’ he said, ‘but I don’t apologise, Gaius. I would see you thrive, like hemlock in a vale.’

‘No forgiveness for you then, general.’ Gaius murmured, his breath caressing Marcus’ lips. ‘And you are condemned to forever bring water to the hemlock, a river never resting.’

‘Then I go to my punishment with a glad heart.’ Marcus said, then he surged forward and crashed his mouth against the other’s.

Gaius gasped, lips parting immediately, drinking him in, greedy as a dying man draws breath. His mouth was hot and sweet, on its roof, on its side, on his clever tongue that so enchanted their entire world, bringing great men and petty kings alike to grovel at his feet. I would too, Marcus thought, but from that position I could not taste this. His hand moved from Gaius’ hips to the back of his neck, almost forcefully he tipped the other’s head backwards, intent on plundering every corner of his mouth. Gaius gave a needy whine from the back of his throat, and long fingers twined about Marcus’ neck, trusting his dearest friend and only love to keep him from falling.

At length they parted, though neither moved away far enough to break the silvery thin string still connecting their mouths. Their reunion kiss was long enough to make Marcus light-headed; yet it felt entirely too short. No time in all the worlds would be enough to quench my thirst for this man, Marcus thought between ragged breaths.

Gaius licked his swollen lips, golden lashes fluttering open, his eyes were dark, the grey now only a stormy ring around overblown pupils. ‘The villa is only staffed with the most trusted of my German guards and servants.’ he said. The non-sequitur made Marcus blink, then slowly he grinned, the hunger that had been lying dormant in him for several months reared its head as a predator stirring from sleep.

‘Out in the open, Caesar?’ he said, ‘How scandalous, whatever happened to your infamous prudishness?’

‘It never existed, save for show, as you know very intimately.’ A breathy sigh escaped Gaius’ parted mouth as sinful hands slithered up the underside of his tunic. He had not worn a toga, as he typically insisted even in private, Marcus noted with satisfaction.

‘Mm. I wouldn’t mind a refresher. Campaigning seemed to have fogged my memories.’ Marcus said, one hand drawing the knot on Gaius’ corded belt while the other caressed the back of his thigh, inching ever higher.

‘And I would be delighted to — ahh — instruct.’ Gaius replied; he was looking not at Marcus, but at his own hands, both of which tugged impatiently on the laces that held Marcus’ breastplate to his chest. ‘Did you do this on purpose? Striding in here in full armour, just to make life difficult for me?’ he complained.

Marcus sniggered. ‘I’m afraid it’s only your impatience that makes life difficult for you, Caesar,’ he said, ‘had I taken the time to wash and change, I expect your umbrage would have been even more terrifying to behold.’

‘Undress as you walk then, I don’t care.’ Gaius said mulishly. ‘Strew your things around the entire villa, let the servants gawk at your godly physique, and come to me in nought but your skin. That’s my command to you, general.’

Laughter sprung from Marcus, the mid-spring warmth seeped into his skin and spread through his entire body. He felt lighter than was possible, the last vestiges of weariness fled from his heart as frost of winter retreats from sunlight. Under the pale gold of that morning, years of war and darkness slipped from memory, the blood staining his hands washed away, and in the sunlight stood no general, no consul, only a man with the greatest happiness in all the worlds in his arms.

‘Lay me over hemlock leaves.’ he said, incongruously. Gaius blinked at him, uncomprehending. ‘When I die,’ he clarified. ‘cremate me on a bed of hemlock, and if it is in bloom, put a bundle of the white umbels in my hands, that my ashes might be mingled with it.’

Gaius frowned, lips turning down unhappily. ‘Must you speak of such things?’ His grey eyes glittered dangerously. ‘Right now? And while you’re doing this to me?’ He gripped Marcus’ right arm, which had crept under his small things and now caressed the dell between his buttocks shamelessly.

‘I’m sorry, Gaius.’ Marcus said, heart clenching at the other’s expression, a mix of consternation and fear marring his beautiful features. ‘It just came to me. Let me make it up to you, please?’

The other man relaxed minutely, though he was still frowning. ‘You may start, perhaps, by taking all of this off yourself. Then we shall see.’ he commanded imperiously.

Marcus grinned and let him go for the moment. ‘Gladly, imperator.’ he said, ‘though perhaps we should move somewhere warmer? I don’t want you sick.’

‘Are you calling me old and frail?’ Gaius sniffed. ‘I’ll have you know I could still out-ride you any day. But I accept your proposition, for one reason.’ he said, catching Marcus’ hand and leading him back towards the villa.

‘Hm?’ Marcus twined their fingers together.

‘And it’s one more crime in your long list of charges.’ He glanced at Marcus, eyes smiling. ‘The hemlock smells terrible.’


	2. Fools Do Live [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night during the time of the second triumvirate. Plans were promised, promises were planned.
> 
> Time: circa 30 BC. The Antony/Octavian relationship has broken down.  
> Rating: T

They were sat in a small circle in Caesar’s chamber, nothing separating them save for letters, scrolls, and a tray bearing only cups of wine. Such was their preferred arrangement when it was just the three of them. And as far as Maecenas was concerned, here, huddled on a bed like schoolboys conceiving mischief, was the true triumvirate.

‘We must move soon, there is no hope of a second extension, even if I could bring myself to wish it.’ Caesar said. The object of their discussion was the imminent death of the official one.

‘And even less on Antony’s part. With this proposal for “mutual relinquishment of triumviral powers”, he has cornered you, Caesar. The moment you are a helpless private citizen, he will strike.’ Maecenas commented, peering over the carefully arranged letters and notes in Caesar’s spidery hand.

‘We know that.’ Agrippa replied, fingers tapping impatiently on a hardened tablet.

Caesar patted his hand and said absently ‘I cannot let it get to that point. His position is far stronger than mine in every respect, and he knows it. We can count on about three-thirds of the Senate to be firmly on his side, when the time comes.’

‘Our legions won’t battle Antony’s, and neither will his agree to fight you, Caesar. But the Senate is another matter.’ Agrippa said, brows knitting in an anxious frown.

‘We still control Rome, and at the very last resort, there is the option of declaring the need for an emergency dictatorship, if Antony could be made to be perceived as a rogue general.’ Maecenas offered, grimacing at the bleak possibility he painted.

‘No. Rather anything than that, even death.’ Caesar said, his head was bowed, and Maecenas could not see his eyes. ‘But you did hit a crucial point, Maecenas. Antony must be made out to be a rogue and traitor. It is not enough that he is an obscene drunkard and womaniser. It is not enough that his Parthian campaign so far has been almost as dismal as Crassus’. He must be seen as betraying Rome from afar.’

‘That will be difficult.’ Maecenas said slowly, bending his astute mind away from song and towards their predicament. ‘Many of our most successful generals still attach themselves closely to him; and so long as he is the leader of their faction, it won’t matter where he is, he will be seen as personally presiding over their triumphal processions and public spending. He could stumble and whore his way through the entire East, and the average citizen would only see a very traditional and republican man.’

To this analysis Caesar nodded, he lifted his head and smiled at Maecenas. It was a little distracting, Maecenas thought, how he reserved that smile only for them, it was different from the one he bestowed on his senators, on his enemies, or his other friends.

‘I couldn’t make a more accurate observation myself, my dear Maecenas.’ he said. ‘All the same, that is the only path open to us. From the moment the triumvirate allocated me the responsibility of Rome and Italy, I have been at a disadvantage — this is not new. Yet I must turn the disadvantage into a weapon, or perish.’

He turned to Maecenas. ‘You and I must re-double our effort, my friend. Send criers to every town, and have your men of letters write to every person who can read about the peril that is Antony. And I thank you for the good praise your poets sing me, they never fail to make me blush. That too must continue.’

‘Agrippa,’ he continued ‘Antony might have scores of followers to drape his name in gold, but I have you. Next year, you shall assume the aedileship; use the opportunity to attach deeds of Republican values to our side — aqueducts, games, charity, do as you see fit, and spare no expense, I will find the funds.’

‘No need, Caesar.’ Agrippa said emphatically. ‘I will use my own money. What other good is all that wealth?’

Caesar nodded, each hand coming to rest in his friends’. ‘Very well. We will prepare, and we will wait. The storm is coming, and strong or not I must face it, but not alone.’

‘Our chances are not so bleak, Caesar.’ Maecenas said, grinning. ‘In this Antony has one gift for us: we have barely touched the potential of his sordid affair with the Egyptian queen. Nobody bats an eyelid at adultery anymore, that’s true. But “Queen of Beasts” has a certain ring to it that I think will wash down really well at the dinner table.’

‘Yes,’ Caesar breathed an amused scoff. ‘I have not forgotten about her. I only thought focusing on her was an unnecessary gamble — Antony only needed to renounce his connection to the Egyptian throne to be welcomed back into Rome, with open arms and singing praises. Then I would instantly be at his mercy.’

‘Don’t worry about that, Caesar. He won’t.’ Agrippa said quietly, gazing at their joined hands. ‘In fact, Maecenas is right, if we use the Egyptian queen as the scapegoat, he will exhaust all of his strength in her defence.’

Caesar looked startled. ‘You are sure? But why?’

‘He loves her.’ said Agrippa. ‘More than Rome. More than his Dignitas. More than life itself.’ He looked up at Caesar, his eyes dark. Caesar swallowed, and neither he nor Maecenas asked how Agrippa knew.

Maecenas shifted and cleared his throat. ‘I need to use the toilet.’ he murmured, getting up from their lounging sprawl. ‘Be right back.’ he said, having no intention to do so.

—

Dimly Marcus noticed Maecenas’ retreat, but it hardly registered on his consciousness, drowned as it was in Gaius’ pale eyes.

‘That will be his doom.’ Gaius said. ‘And once more will I use another man’s love against him.’ His left hand came up to caress the space around Marcus’ cheek, not daring to touch. Absurd, Marcus thought, considering they had already done far more than touch. Absurd, his heart added, that Gaius should count something that had always belonged to him as exploitation.

Marcus leaned into the ghostly touch, his hand covering the other’s. ‘Not against.’ he said. ‘You are life itself. How could the service of you ever be against my own interest?’

Gaius laughed softly. To Marcus’ surprise and panic, his eyes glistened with unshed tears. ‘But fools do live, and waste their little lights. And seek with pain their ever-during night.’ he whispered.

‘Gaius?’ Marcus asked. He longed to hold his lover close, but Gaius held himself stiff and firm.

‘Someone once told me that.’ he said. ‘A lifetime ago. Has it only been years?’ he sighed, closing his eyes. ‘The sun will set and rise again, he said. But soon our own lights will go out, so “let us live and let us love”, he bade me.’

‘Ah.’ was all Marcus could manage. But something in his voice wrung Gaius from his own memories. Grey eyes fluttered open, the dying coals glittered gold in their clear depths.

‘You are the keeper of my heart.’ he said, quietly but with more conviction than Marcus had ever heard him, even when he took his solemn vows on his divine father’s ashes.

Marcus’s own heart loosened from a gripping constriction he had not noticed. ‘I know.’ he murmured, stroking Gaius’ hand. ‘How did you respond?’ he asked, more out of curiosity now than fear.

‘Not very well, I think. I told him I was not a fan of Catullus’ flighty verses.’ Gaius replied. ‘I still am not. But, Marcus, tell me honestly, do you wish that were us?’ He bowed his head. ‘Catullus and his lover. Would you not prefer to live in love, as he did? Do you wish I had not— that I were someone less bound to promise and ambition, my own and my father’s?’

‘No.’ Marcus’ answer was instantaneous. Gaius looked up, surprised. ‘I don’t wish for anything but you, as you are, Gaius.’ As he spoke, he knew it to be the whole truth: no envy could he find in his heart for the poet’s idyll of love and peace. ‘I would not suffer a day in Elysium if you were not there. Where your path leads I shall go, right beside you, be it towards salvation or eternal condemnation.’

Gaius stared at him, his breathing shallow. ‘Perhaps Antony feels the same for his mistress. Perhaps not. I don’t care. But I know my heart’s kindred in his, and we will use it to their undoing. It won’t be pretty, but it must be done, for it is necessary for your survival and bloom.’ He closed his eyes and kissed Gaius’ palm.

‘I swear,’ Gaius’ free hand came to rest upon Marcus’ chest, right above his heart. ‘I will make it up to you. A life only for the two of us.’

‘You believe the Greeks then?’ Marcus murmured into his hand, smiling. ‘That our spirits could receive new lives, if we drink from the river Lethe? But I would rather spend the rest of my eternity wandering the underworld than forgetting you.’

‘As do I.’ Gaius laughed softly, leaning forwards to rest his head in the crook of Marcus’ shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I will find a way.’

—

If all would live their lives in love like me,  
Then bloody swords and armour should not be.  
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,  
Unless alarm came from the camp of love.  
But fools do live and waste their little lights,  
And seek with pain their ever-during night.

(Thomas Campion, after Catullus V)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Imagine Gaius was using the original Latin version by Catullus. It is quite a bit different from Campion’s poem, which is also [a song](https://youtu.be/zUv8D0KUCz4)


	3. Sleeping with Dragons [M]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Principate is ruled by a lying, cheating snake.
> 
> Time: not too long after Actium (31 BC)  
> Rating: M

The room was relatively small, discreetly tucked away in a corner of the elegant estate, easily mistaken for a guest chamber. A single window overlooked the western side of the Palatine and into the grounds of the Circus Maximus below, deserted at this time of night. It actually offered one of the best views of the Tiber banks, and on moonlit nights one could see the river twinkling in the distance.

But now there was only pitch dark, and wind came hissing through the gaps between closed shutters. A single lamp light trembled, casting murmuring shadows upon the walls. In the small oasis of light, two figures lay entwined in bliss: one golden head rest very still, the rising and falling of chest almost imperceptible; the other, dark as the night, leant over him from behind, half-raised on a languid arm.

Marcus traced the skin over one bony shoulder, fingers drawing mindless patterns. His attention was elsewhere: transfixed by the dance of golden filigree in front of him. It was normally too pale to warrant the impression, but in the amber light, Gaius’ blond head looked as if it had been weaved from gold. The precious metal itself was just another kind of number to Marcus, and he thought of it in terms of how many legionaries each bar could pay. Right then, however, he fancied he might understand how King Midas might have felt.

The object of his study slept on undisturbed, save for a minute shiver. Marcus paused; very gently, very carefully, he drew the other against his own chest. Gaius’ back was cold, but it quickly warmed under the steady thudding of Marcus’ heart. He cast the woollen covers around them both, one large arm wrapping around the sleeping figure firmly. Gaius gave a soft sigh of content and promptly took his arm hostage. Marcus felt an all too familiar fond smile on his lips. He buried his face in the crook of Gaius’ neck and inhaled deeply.

He wished he could bite down and draw blood. The skin there was mortally thin, it would not be very difficult at all to break it and leave a permanent mark. He bit his lips and drew a shuddering breath. He smelled clean skin and the scent of whichever oil they used in the Princeps’ baths, but underneath them was something that was just Gaius. Marcus had not the imagination and eloquence to describe it, save for the clenching of his throat. He hungered for it.

He distracted himself with looking over the other’s slanted profile. He only succeeded in getting trapped in the half-imagined memories of that face drawing close to others’ — a greeting kiss, a politic embrace, a beatific smile before a cheering crowd, mirrored in his wife’s identical one from her rightful place next to him.

I am not a mad man, Marcus thought to himself. Liar, something in him answered. I have my legions, he has his Senate. We both have families of our own, and we both have Rome. These grounding truths rang hollow in his mind, which demanded only one thing over and over. Like a child throwing a tantrum, he chided. It was no use.

‘You are thinking too loud.’ Gaius’ quiet voice broke through his darkening thoughts. He blinked and whispered an apology into the beloved shoulders.

Gaius turned in his arms and tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ he murmured.

Marcus shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ he said, ‘I was just being silly.’

‘A silly master of Rome, hm?’ Gaius chuckled. He leaned up to land a soft peck on Marcus’ lips. ‘Want to tell me about this silly, funny business?’

Marcus did not answer. He had no words for the ugly, tangled mass that gnawed at his insides whenever he thought about anybody else, anything else touching Gaius. Carding their fingers through these soft filaments of light. Smoothing their hands down this supple back and eliciting a shiver. Looking into these pale eyes and seeing themselves.

But worse, much worse was the idea — the fact that other people, other things, other passions frequently occupied the brilliant soul in his arms. He never ceased to want it only for himself, even as he fought to lay those others at the feet of this man.

He did not have to answer. Gaius stared at him unblinking, the flame light caught and flickered golden in the silver of his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ he said, but it was unapologetic. ‘I’m sorry that we must hide in here, that we make love furtively behind everyone’s back like it’s something shameful. I’m sorry that we could not take our vows before Juno, even though ours is a marriage more sacred than all the ones she has witnessed.’

‘Like our other marriages?’ Marcus asked sardonically. Gaius frowned, but he nodded after a pause.

‘We— I deserve that. I am the one with the campaign for public morality, after all. And here I am, in bed with someone not my lawful wife.’ He chuckled. Marcus felt a tinge of regret at the tone, he berated himself again for the tantrum. He opened his mouth to take it back, but Gaius put a finger to his lips. ‘Hush. It is the truth. But... I swear to you, it is not much, but I swear on whichever part of my soul that is still pure. All of it is yours.’

Marcus’ heart trembled in its cage. Here he was, a grown man in his thirties, undone by a simple confession like a teenage boy. To the end of my life, he thought, those words in this voice will always make me feel sixteen again. He tightened his arms around the other’s waist and drew him flush against his chest, half-wishing he could absorb his treasure and never let it go.

Arms wound around his back in return, fingers drawing soothing circles on his skin. ‘Horace is right, you know.’ Gaius said, voice slightly muffled. ‘I love Rome, but I also love power. It’s a kind of dubious honour to be counted among the things I love — can you believe that insolent man? He’s lucky I like him.’

Gaius drew back slightly to look at him again. The long, thin fingers cupped his cheek reverently. ‘I love my general, Agrippa. Even as much as I love my Rome. But you, dear Marcus.’ He smiled. ‘I belong to you.’

The ugly, gnarled thing in the pit of Marcus’ stomach loosened its chokehold slightly. Tendrils of violent hunger still issued from it, but tame enough that Marcus dared to lean forwards and let it lick its way into Gaius’ mouth. He twisted over, trapping Gaius against the bed with his frame. He was vaguely aware of the undue force he used on the thin wrists, but Gaius offered not a hint of protest.

‘No one can touch you like this.’ he growled hoarsely into Gaius’ parted lips.

‘How selfish. We are both married, no? And they keep gifting me all these slaves, both male and female. You would think they are trying to make me some kind of— Ow!’

Marcus drew back, rolling the taste of copper around his tongue. Gaius’ lips were blood-red. All his. Gaius’ beautiful eyes were half-lidded, seeing nothing but him. He licked his own lips, trailing his right hand down lean arms. His fingers cinched a rosy nipple in warning. ‘No one.’ he stated again.

Gaius grinned. The traces of blood on his pearly teeth coupled with the defiant flash of his eyes made him look more wild animal than princely consul. ‘Can you make me?’ he threw back at Marcus.

Marcus snarled, his control fraying. He dived down to bite punishingly at the erect nipple, while his hand rapidly ran down the length of taut stomach, coming to Gaius’ stiff member. It flushed and quivered in his hand. Once, twice, he stroked it in tune with sucking at the swollen bud. Gaius gave a long groan and drew one of his legs up to wrap around Marcus’ hips. Marcus gripped the other, throwing it wide.

Gaius’ crescendo climbed with each stroke of Marcus’ hand. On a particularly loud moan, he gripped the base tightly. The moan turned into a choked gasp. Gaius kicked at him unhappily with his ankle.

‘No one.’ He grinned down at the his lover, knowing how savage he must look, with Gaius’ blood in his mouth, and the unquenchable thirst in his eyes.

‘Yes, yes. No one. Never again. I won’t allow anybody to touch me but you! Happy? Now get on with it.’ Gaius got out in a rush. His hands grabbed at Marcus blindly.

Marcus laughed. ‘You’re too easy.’ he commented much to the other’s disapproval. ‘I’ve barely started.’ he said. One disobedient finger flitted down from the base of his Gaius’ length, down, down further. There it lingered over the tantalising hole, soft and pliant from their bath. Under the lightest pressure, it twitched and almost drew him in.

‘Get to it then.’ Gaius complained, arching restlessly under Marcus’ hold. ‘Or I swear to the gods I will get one of my German guards in here—’

Marcus decided that he had best make sure the impertinent mouth was occupied that night, else he might actually go mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I think that summary might be the biggest bamboozle I’ve ever written.  
> \- Terrible place to cut, I know. But I need more uhh study before I can write proper smut.


	4. I Gave My Love a Cherry [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agrippa commands like a genius and loves like a fool.
> 
> Time: between the fall of Sextus Pompey (35 BC) and Actium (31 BC).  
> Rating: T

‘Does he treat you right?’

Marcus blinked up at Polla, who stood against the light pouring in from the atrium, but far enough from his desk that her face was cast in shadow. Even the dark blue of her dress seemed almost an extension of the night, the only part of her that could clearly be seen was her laden arms: they were cradling a nondescript medium-sized box. She stepped fully into his study and closed the door behind her with a soft click.

His sister strode with quick, decisive steps, halting only when she came up to his desk. On it she laid down her burden, revealed by the lamplight to be a wicker basket, tied securely with leather strings. Polla offered neither explanation nor greeting, only busied herself with unwrapping her own package.

With a patience that could only be born out of familial understanding, Marcus finished jotting down the final words of his report and rolled up the scroll, while waiting for his sister to do whatever it was — interrogating him, showing him dead spiders, sneaking treats only for him and not Lucius — she did as she liked, then and now. Out of the three of them, Polla was ironically the one who resembled their father the most - she had a stockier build than most girls, along with his square jaw and dark brown eyes. As she grew older the similarities only intensified, from the shrewd business sense, the strong will, to the fierce loyalty. She loosened the final knot and looked up at him, tearing the lid open in a rather manic flourish.

‘Behold! The fruit of the gods.’ Polla cried with a grin.

Marcus looked and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. ‘Cherries?’ he asked. ‘Delicious, yes, but “fruit of the gods”? Seems a little hyperbolic.’

Polla scowled. ‘Why did I even bother with you?’ She shook her head vexedly. ‘You can become King of Persia, and inside are still the same uncultured peasant. Look! This is no ordinary cherry, but the god of them all — this cultivar is from Anatolia, and I am the first in all of Italy to have secured a supply.’

Marcus raised the other eyebrow at her. It looked the same as wild cherries to him — perhaps larger and redder — ah yes, the colour was very dark, some of the fruits veering into a beautiful Tyrian purple. He said as much to Polla, who gloated about the difficulties of caring for these more delicate trees and the great deals she had managed to strike with Rome’s richest gourmands. He listened with half an ear, popping one of the fruits into his mouth; it instantly burst into sweet yet delicate flavours, more like sweet wine than the honey cakes Gaius so loved. He picked out the hard kernel with his tongue.

A bell chimed somewhere in the villa, announcing the end of the first watch of the night; it was later than he thought. He frowned and made to stand, gathering his half-finished work as he did. Polla had quietened and was now peering at him with a neutral, unreadable look on her face.

‘Off to work, still?’ she asked. Marcus paused in his motions, she did not say it with disapproval, but if he knew his sister, there was something almost like anger lurking beneath the even tone.

‘Just to see Caesar.’ he replied. ‘I’m worried about a few regions in Hispania. On top of Antony, we can’t afford to be caught blind in yet more trouble.’

‘Like with Sextus Pompeius?’ she asked. Marcus nodded. His sister had always been more informed than the average widow, then again any man or woman with a brain ought to, in these times. After a short pause, Polla continued: ‘He was very much out of his depth then too, wasn’t he? If not for you and Taurus, he would have been finished then, no need for Mark Antony. So many died, in Sicily, in Greece, in Italy... and you, you almost died too.’

Marcus studied her. There was no question who ‘he’ was, and her hostility flickered visible for the first time.

‘I am a soldier, Polla.’ he told her. ‘And I have always wanted to be. I knew what I signed up for; who goes to war thinking they could not possibly die?’

‘He does.’ she gritted. ‘He has his adoptive father’s confidence alright, but not the skill. He goes to war thinking he will live to win, because someone else will die for him.’

‘Polla.’ Marcus interrupted her. He was aware of the deadly cold tone his voice had taken. His sister lapsed into a tense, mutinous silence.

Marcus sighed.

When he was six, and Polla fourteen, a few older boys had taken him hare-snatching in the woods, only to run into distant wolf-howls. The boys had panicked and scattered, each to himself. Lucius was not with them, and Marcus was alone, terrified. But he had remembered that wolves could not climb trees, or not do so very well, and instantly scrambled up the nearest oak tree he could find. For hours he lay flat on a branch, clinging to the rough bark, listening to the haunting calls — now further, now nearer, until at last he heard cries in human, familiar voices. When it registered to him that the sound was not at all animalistic, he had been so overtaken with relief that his stiff hold on the branch slackened, and he went tumbling to the ground. 

Fortunately he landed on his legs, and did not suffer any mortal injury to his head or his spine. The medicine man had said something about his knees; all Marcus could remember was it had hurt awfully and he could not play ball with Lucius for a while afterwards. Everything seemed to have turned out fine in the end, though his mother still reminded him to be careful with his legs, that it would be the most unfunny comedy ever to have a name like ‘Agrippa’ and suffer from lame legs.

When Polla learnt of the full incident, however, there was nothing fine about it. She went from house to house for each of the boys who had accompanied Marcus then abandoned him, raising hell in her wake. Lucius had recalled to him with a shudder that her howls were worse than any wolf’s, and she would not relent until she managed to kick every single one of them in the loins. At the time Marcus had only been in awe of his sister, and only much later did he realise that Polla’s actions were terrible for a girl right in the prime of marriageable age. She ended up marrying a much older gentleman, a family friend; she insisted she was much happier for it.

Marcus blinked the memories from his eyes. It had been such a long time ago, but it seemed Polla had lost none of her protective streak. Yet it must be harder for her now, when they were fully grown, inevitably drifted apart, and Marcus now walking a high, perilous path from which she could neither protect nor avenge him. It must be difficult for someone like Polla to resign herself to the sort of helpless worry that was the only choice for women.

‘Polla.’ he tried again. ‘It’s not like that. I am Caesar’s adherent and friend, it is only natural that I should go where he cannot. We each have our strengths and weaknesses, Caesar thinks no worse of me when I act without thinking, and I don’t begrudge him his lack of battle instinct. We work together for Rome.’

‘All well and good, until you lay dead for his ambition.’ Polla murmured harshly, though some of the heat had gone from her voice.

‘It is mine too, you know.’ Marcus said with a smile; he patted her shoulder with affection. ‘I too desire to see Rome prosper in peace and stability. I’m a politician and general, not a mercenary.’

‘With him as supreme master, you mean.’ Polla remarked. Marcus shot her a sharp look.

‘He does everything he can to preserve the republic’s integrity, Polla.’

His sister waved her hand, indicating clearly that she did not wish to pursue this line of conversation with him. She got up, dusted her hands in an exaggerated manner, and began to make her way out of his study.

‘Well, if you’re going to leave, you’d better do it soon.’ she called to him as she reached the door. ‘I don’t expect Caesar is the sort to enjoy waiting, unless it’s for a chance to strike. Take the cherries to him and he might not kick you to a guest room.’ With that she left him.

Marcus shook his head — perhaps one day Polla would warm up to Gaius, but in all honesty he had more hope of Lucius doing so. The thought brought a sad smile to his lips.

He picked up the basket of cherries, secured the lid, and made to start the short trip to Gaius’ Palatine house. Halfway through his walk, he faltered — what was that Polla said about a guest room?

—

One of the Gallic slaves let him in. Gaius was still in his study, though he had dismissed every servant and kept only a couple of his German guards on watch. The two men were as tall as he was, with blazing yellow hair and stony faces. Marcus recognised them, and they in turn immediately opened the door for him. Their footsteps echoed and receded as soon as the door clicked shut. 

A low-burning lamp cast golden shadows across Gaius’ head; his face was propped up with one hand, his eyes downcast, seemingly intent on pursuing something on his desk. He neither looked up nor acknowledged Marcus. Marcus smiled.

‘Working late, Caesar?’ he asked, sauntering up to the man. Gaius hummed and offered him no reply. Marcus bent over him, blocking his light, and forced their eyes to meet with a crooked finger under the other’s chin. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ he apologised.

The beautiful grey eyes narrowed. ‘I wasn’t waiting for you.’ he snipped. Marcus’ grin widened.

‘I was consolidating a few reports on Cantabria and forgot the time. I’ve brought them.’

‘You can leave them right here then.’ Gaius replied, patting the pile of papyrus and thick scrolls next to him.

Marcus chuckled. ‘Don’t be like that.’ he tried. ‘I brought offerings. Cherries, some special cultivar from Anatolia, very sweet. Polla sent her best wishes.’

Gaius arched his tawny eyebrows at the blatant lie, but the mention of sweet treats snared his attention for the moment. He watched curiously as Marcus untied the package. Once open, the contents seemed to impress him substantially more than it did Marcus - he let out a soft noise of appreciation. Marcus picked up a fruit and handed it to him; its purple skin gleamed in the lamplight.

‘I can see that. A new kind of cherry, you said?’ He eyed the fruit, turning it around his hand, then without ceremony bit into it. His eyes fluttered closed and he made a rather obscene show of eating it. He sucked on the other half; it left glistening droplets on his lips and tainting them a strange colour. A pink tongue darted out to lick them clean.

Marcus followed the motion, half-exasperated, half-aroused. The other man played him like he was an inexperienced teenage boy, and dash it all, it was effective. Abruptly Gaius frowned, looking at the fruit between his fingers.

‘This new breed doesn’t have stones? How did they do that?’ he asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

Marcus bent down to look at the opened half: indeed there was no hard kernel inside. He shook his head. ‘It’s just this one. I ate some earlier. They do have seeds.’

Gaius shrugged. A sly grin came over his face; quick as a fox he popped the remaining half in his mouth and yanked Marcus’ leaning form over the desk, crashing their mouths together.

The kiss, if it could be called that, was sloppy and wet. Gaius’ tongue was in his mouth while he was busy catching himself on the edge of the desk. Rewarding his effort, the tongue swiped a sweet path over his own before pressing a succulent piece of cherry into it. He groaned, the taste was much sweeter than he remembered, and already he was getting drunk on it. He passed the fruit to his teeth in favour of tasting Gaius’ feverishly hot tongue. Their mouths tangled and danced. Marcus could feel sticky wetness dripping down the side of his chin, but he had not the presence of mind to care, his attention all caught up in Gaius, in his sweet mouth, in his soft sighs, in the way he garbled Marcus’ name between kisses.

A loud crash startled them both. Marcus blinked. Gaius was halfway across his own desk, tiptoeing on one side while the other slipped a knee over the smooth surface. On the floor lay a shattered inkwell and Gaius’ previously neat mountain of paper - heavy vellum rolled away into the dark, light papyrus fluttered every which way. They stared at the scene for a few beats before breaking out in sniggers, leaning against each other over the desk.

‘Why am I as uncontrollable as a little boy when it comes to you?’ Gaius asked.

‘Funny, I was thinking the same in reverse.’ Marcus replied, stroking his hair.

‘Mm. Think you’re young enough to have me over a desk?’ True to his word, Gaius lifted the rest of his body onto it. From his kneeling position, he was finally taller than Marcus, and took good advantage of it by looming over him, grinning.

‘If you think you could refrain from complaining about your back afterwards.’ Marcus offered.

‘We’ll see.’ Gaius leaned down and smiled into his mouth. He yelped indignantly when Marcus pulled at his ankles, but went willingly.

Does he treat me right? Polla’s unanswered question flashed at the back of his mind as he wrapped Gaius’ legs around his own waist. It makes no difference, he decided, though I’m glad he does. He does. Marcus bent down to offer him a reverent kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- ‘I will give my love an apple’ or ‘I gave my love a cherry’ is a folk song. To me it means something like unconditional love, love without a motive, love unreserved. ‘I will build my love a house without any door / I will give my love a palace wherein he may be / And he will unlock it without any key’. [This](https://youtu.be/FzJ4CGqFU9w) is a rendition of both versions.


	5. Virtue Is Its Own Reward (1) [E]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caesar has issues. Agrippa is indulgent. Maecenas takes it all with aplomb.
> 
> Time: circa 30 - 25 BC  
> Rating: E  
> Content Warnings: Maecenas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I set out to write some porn, determined to get past the hurdle of never managing to write any smut. I’ve never written anything where the guys get past second stage, and that needs to change. And yet, halfway through, this thing turns into a feels fest. These two, ugh, they are nauseating! Next time will be real smut, I swear it.  
> \- divi filius: son of a god, referring to Octavian after Julius died. Divus Julius: divine Julius.  
> \- ‘amo’: ‘I love’, you don’t usually need pronouns in Latin. This word doesn’t technically appear :)

Maecenas was having the time of his life.

The pretty thing kneeling by his thigh made a show of dropping forwards on one hand, ostensibly to procure more wine for his master of the evening, but from the way the boy’s back arched unnecessarily, he was aiming to slake another kind of thirst. Not that Maecenas was complaining. He leaned back further on his seat, enjoying the way the slave’s scandalously short tunic rode up further on his thigh, the silky Eastern fabric caressing his smooth brown skin like ghostly fingers.

The nameless boy shimmied back to Maecenas’ side. Rising up on his knees, he bent at the waist sinuously and held out the half-filled cup with both hands. Along with the wine, he also offered a spectacular view of his perky nipples and upturned backside; the thick, dark lashes fanning over glinting eyes only served to amplify the effect. Maecenas grinned, accepting the sweet nectar with a hooded gaze of his own. Say what you would about the Parthians, they knew how to party.

Alas, they were not in any of the Parthian cities, or even Athens; they were at the heartlands of Rome. The soil on which the ambassador’s villa stood belonged to a people still desperately clinging to their virtuous austerity and modesty, otherwise Maecenas would have done as he truly wanted and licked the wine from the boy’s sweet skin instead.

Speaking of things he could not have.

Maecenas cast his eyes over the dinner party lazily. Credit where credit was due: Ambassador Oxyartes had managed to transplant Persian opulence onto a handsome Roman dining lounge almost seamlessly. Piles of drugs in the Anatolian style were strewn around in no particular order, the dance of colours and patterns almost hypnotic. Long curtains cascaded from above, wrapping the entire room in an intimate embrace. The material was as thin as dragonfly wings, letting in specks of amber light that escaped from low lamps, fashioned like ornate cages of wrought metal.

Inside, the air was at once light with merriment and heavy with secrets. Senators’ heads bent together in close conversation, punctuated with laughter, calls for wine, and pauses to take little bites from the hands of their pretty slaves, since their own were occupied with stroking bare skin and demure heads. The scent of incense drifted about the room, hurrying virtuous Roman men along the path of inebriation alongside their foreign host.

Said host was sitting where the lectus imus would be in a normal Roman dining lounge. As it was, he reclined on a wide sofa with gem-studded patterns and downy cushions, one leg drawn up in a picture of decadence. Unusually, the guest of honour sat with him.

Caesar was not enjoying himself.

Maecenas hid a smirk behind his cup. Gaius Caesar Octavianus, Roman consul and Maecenas’ dearest friend, was his usual charming, assured self. He sat rather primly compared to the rest of the party, only leaning slightly towards his host, a cup in one hand, and no slave at his feet. Caesar somehow always made lounging look like an art, all power and poise, nearly a god, but without the overtly oppressive intensity associated with the position. He looked... he looked like his title, divi filius.

Presently, his head was tilted in his signature attentive manner, offering such gentle focus that it often disarmed the other person completely, compelling them to whisper their troubles into his sympathetic ear.

Sure enough, Ambassador Oxyartes leaned close into Caesar’s personal space; the man’s styled facial hair very close to his cheek. Caesar’s right hand came up to cradle his own face in pondering thought; he nodded at regular intervals to whichever state secrets Oxyartes was divulging, a finger on his faintly smiling mouth.

He really did have a nice mouth, Maecenas thought as he sipped his wine, the hazy atmosphere of the party according him the chance to stare unabashedly. It was not like that of the nameless pretty boy by Maecenas’ feet, plush and pouting — natural cock-sucking lips — it was small and rather thin, the bow delicate, the corners sharply curved, hiding a secretive smile. In the eyes of others, such as the eminent ambassador, it probably looked charming, witty, easy to like. Not Maecenas of course, he knew what that hidden smile entailed: whoever was on Caesar’s thoughts then would do well to make sure their interests align with his.

It was the jaws of a cobra. And by Minerva, Maecenas could swear he never liked danger, that was just not who he was — wine, poetry, and intrigue on the winning side for him any day, thank you very much — but that did not seem to stop his mind from fantasising about Caesar’s pretty, poisonous mouth. His loins stirred in interest, only proving his point further. Thank the gods for the eager slave’s hands on him, he had an excuse if he needed it. Maecenas was just a man — and so was the ambassador; not that the fact would help either of them.

Maecenas drew his gaze away from his pleasant fantasy and flicked it to the other side of the room, where Agrippa sat between Taurus and a Parthian aristocrat. He grinned into his cup.

Agrippa’s face was hilarious. His facial muscles were so still Maecenas could only imagine the sheer effort put into maintaining it — did Caesar teach him? He maintained a forced half-smile as the Parthian spoke to him, all while his eyes burned and flashed thunder-blue. His conversational partner seemed shaken under their regard, not quite knowing whether to talk more or less. Poor man — Maecenas tried not to laugh — Agrippa was not even looking at him; he just happened to sit between the general and his Caesar.

There were a pair of slaves at his feet, male and female, both very beautiful, their skin glistened gold under the low light of the room, their bodies slender with all the right curves. The boy was even blond — hilarious. The girl seemed utterly besotted with Agrippa: even as she carefully peeled the grapes in front of her, her face kept turning up towards him as if she could not help herself.

Maecenas rather understood her — his other best friend was ridiculously attractive. Not in a refined and kingly way like Divus Julius had been, but it was very difficult to resist the gravity of his — his raw animal appeal. Agrippa half-slouched, one long leg stretched out in front of him, the other tugged backwards, giving an impression of something coiled, ready to spring. His tunic was loosely fitted, as was proper, yet it still failed to conceal the power of the body beneath. His virility was obvious and obscene.

Was it strange to notice these sorts of things about one’s best friends, whom one had known as children? Well, it was useless to deny that Caesar was arresting, and Agrippa had by this point shed all of his adorable boyish looks. At any rate, Maecenas was a poet, it was his calling to notice beauty.

Agrippa stretched out his cup-bearing hand to accept a refill from the male slave, completely ignoring the plaintive offering of the girl. She was more than compensated for it however, with the way the general tossed back his wine in one gulp; the bulge on his throat popped, drawing even Maecenas’ gaze. Now, while Maecenas tended to prefer the lithe, beautiful type, he was honest enough with himself to admit that he would not at all mind getting a taste of that — salty skin, hard muscles, chiselled jawline, mm...

Maecenas jolted, as though stung. He glanced around — no murderous insects — no, he was quite sure he had vetted the ambassador’s staff thoroughly, the guests included Caesar after all. He glanced at the man a touch uneasily, but Caesar still seemed absorbed in his conversation with the ambassador, the light of his eyes hidden as he murmured suggestions to the Parthian.

Their host threw back his head in roaring laughter at something Caesar said, then he grinned and clapped his hands in a staccato pattern — a signal. Maecenas stiffened slightly, the haze of wine retreating somewhat.

To his relief, answering the ambassador’s calls were not armed thugs, but music from unseen players, followed by a host of beautiful dancers, clad in the thinnest fabric he had ever seen. That point at least put his mind at ease: there was nowhere for any of them to conceal a weapon.

The performers moved like coloured mist, now drifting among the guests, now gathering in the centre of the room, their feet barely touching the ground. Maecenas almost whistled to himself — forget about sumptuary laws, Rome was missing out. The show had almost the entire party transfixed, excluding a few usual suspects: Maecenas himself, since he was that great at multitasking — thank you — Agrippa, did the man ever relax at all? All that tension and energy — Caesar, whose expression showed such a precise amount of awe that could only mean he was bored to tears.

Oxyartes clapped his hands again, and the dancers dispersed themselves among the guest, leaving the music a soft melody in the background. The ‘centrepiece’ of the dance, a breathtakingly beautiful youth of about fifteen, glided towards the ambassador and his favourite guest. The boy’s olive skin glowed, tiny pearls of sweat glittered on the silky surface like embroidery. The golden tunic he wore showed more than hid his beauty, the slit front strategically tempting. His dainty hand came to rest on Caesar’s bare arm in a shock of audacity. Coupled with the parted lips and the lowered lashes, however, he made a coy and irresistible picture. A real Ganymede, he was.

The distance made it impossible, yet Maecenas felt Caesar stiffened. He still smiled warmly at the ambassador and nodded in gracious acquiescence as Oxyartes gestured to the slave and waggled his eyebrows, but as soon as the man occupied himself with another star of the troupe, he abruptly turned his head to fix his full focus on the beautiful boy.

A chance parting of the clouds let cold moonbeams into the room, slicing through the cosy atmosphere and glancing off Caesar’s face. The slave staggered backwards, as though he had been stabbed, the seductive flush draining from his cheeks. It was over in an instant, and whatever the poor boy saw there took all the confidence out of him; he trembled and dropped meekly to the side of Caesar’s leg, eyes truly downcast, no longer playing coy.

Truth be told, the entire exchange kind of turned him on a little, Maecenas thought as he popped a grape into his mouth. Maybe he did have that daredevil streak after all.

He abandoned that idea when Caesar turned to him, voice raised to draw Maecenas into a conversation with Ambassador Oxyartes on the subject of Sumerian collectibles.

‘I fear I must take leave of you for the time being, ambassador.’ Caesar moved smoothly to his main objective. ‘The rumours did no justice to your exquisite taste — this wine has truly been an eye opener; it is nothing like what we Romans have.’ A few of the more sober and intelligent senators put down their cups, their subconscious recognising the disapproval. Maecenas did no such thing — unlike them, Caesar loved him, of course.

Pleasantries, and more apologies offered with a charming smile, citing fatigue under the influence of good wine, then Caesar made to depart to the guest suite that the ambassador had prepared especially for him. Maecenas glibly took over the duties of conversation.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the predictable: Agrippa quietly getting up, following Caesar out of the room like night follows day. Save for the slave girl, none paid him any attention — he had always been the one to oversee their leader’s safety, whether on the field of battle or at innocuous parties.

Maecenas sighed to himself. Sometimes he really felt unappreciated.

—

As soon as he was alone in the darkened hall leading to his rooms, Gaius stopped and leaned against the wall, smiling with bated breath.

Not even a moment later, a figure stepped over the threshold, drawing the doors close against the light of the party, plunging the corridor into almost pitch black, save for the flutters of a low brazier. Then a shadow cast over him, blocking even that light. He could see nothing in the dark. Arms caged him in on both sides, trapping him under a large body thick with tension. It pressed him in, his back flat against the wall. He had to tip his head up to meet dark eyes, black as the shadows all around.

He had never felt safer.

‘Did you enjoy yourself, Caesar?’ Marcus murmured into the scant space between them. His voice was rougher than usual; the syllables leaned into each other, tipsy. It did strange things to Gaius’ insides, and he had to suppress the urge to lean closer. Patience, Caesar, that has ever been your forte. Only he could never recall what that virtue even felt like when they were together.

‘I did.’ he replied, ‘The ambassador is very charming. Exotic, too. He showed me how much work is involved in the maintenance of his beard — it has to be oiled, curled, and perfumed everyday. And did you know,’ He lowered his eyes, gazing downwards meaningfully, and let a smirk creep into his voice. ‘the same effort applies down there, too.’

‘Does it.’ Marcus caught his chin in one hand and his nape in the other. ‘And I assume he suggested a demonstration?’ Rough callouses brushed the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. He kept his breathing steady, but could not reign in the little shiver shooting from that infernal spot just between his shoulders, coursing through his spine. His own skin and bones were traitorous to him. At the slightest hint of Marcus’ touch, they arched towards him like leaves to sunlight.

‘Well, the ambassador was curious about the differences between Roman and Parthian grooming practices.’ Gaius said. ‘He never thought much of Romans’ tendency for completely shaving off hair, except on our heads, you see. Apparently it was something they reserved for eunuchs and pleasure slaves. But he thought the look suited me — I didn’t bother telling him I just couldn’t grow any — “dignified like one of your marble busts” — that’s what he said, then he asked to touch.’ The last word he whispered directly into Marcus’ lips, as the other man had been steadily leaning forwards during their back-and-forth. Their eyes were very close now. A thought crossed Gaius’ mind: I, too, am becoming a god, pulled onto a starless heaven where only I shine.

‘And will Caesar allow him?’ Marcus asked, tone deceptively light. Gaius grinned; his tongue darted out to flick at the other’s lips before he could stop it.

‘Should I? I do think we should foster more intimate friendships with the Parthian aristocracy, in the interest of peace.’ Gaius shot back, tempting fate. He could not help it: his lover was adorable, always had been.

A low, frustrated growl answered him. His breath hitched, his mouth falling open of its own accord, waiting for a kiss, starved for it.

Marcus did not kiss him. Instead, a thumb shoved roughly between his lips, pressing on his tongue, tracing his teeth. He faltered for a moment before closing his mouth on it. He sucked, eyes firmly on his lover’s face.

He was rewarded with a shudder of the strong body pressing against his hands — when did they find their way up Marcus’ chest?

Marcus surged forwards, looming over him, leaning down, down, until his face was flushed against Gaius’ neck. The rough ends of new hairs on Marcus’ shaven jaw pricked the sensitive skin there, and his restraint popped, crumbling pathetically easily.

An embarrassing whine escaped his throat, vibrating against the thumb still in his mouth. He wanted to free his hands, crushed uncomfortably between them, and wound them around Marcus’ back, but the heavy body half on top of him refused to budge even an inch. He settled for resting them on Marcus’ shoulders, tracing the ropes of muscles greedily.

Another whine spilled from him, accompanied by a full-bodied shiver. There must be something wrong with my neck, he thought dazedly, one press of the other man’s mouth against his pulse and he completely lost it — it was so unfair.

He was still trembling, embarrassed, when Marcus ceased the innocent nuzzling against his neck, moving to bite and suck instead. The scrape of teeth against his vulnerable point should not have aroused him so, but it did, and he had scarcely enough presence of mind to murmur a breathless ‘don’t leave a mark’ to his lover.

Marcus laughed into his skin, a deep, husky laugh that he could never get enough. ‘And why not?’ he retorted, ‘I’ve dreamt of marking you up for the entire Senate to see for as long as I can remember. Screaming to the whole world that Caesar is mine. Mine to serve, mine to love, mine to fuck.’

Gods, the force of his words, the sincerity and vulgarity. They drove him mad, setting off a roaring fire in his ears. With suddenly found strength, he pushed Marcus off himself and dropped to his knees before him, face pressed against his clothed hip, mouthing, fumbling for his cock. He needed it, needed it more than air, more than Rome, more than his blood-won laurels.

‘Caesar — Gaius —’ Marcus sounded as wretched as he felt, his half-hard cock rapidly thickening under Gaius’ hand, even through the fabric of his loincloth. They had done this countless times and more, but this position — the utter wrongness of it, always turned both of them on so much neither was willing to admit it. 

A violent shudder coursed through him, as he all but tore one knotted side off and wrapped a trembling hand around his partially uncovered prize. He inhaled deeply, the musky smell made him light-headed, more dazed than he had been by the exotic scent of foreign incense. His eyes snapped open — when had he closed them? Mouthing blindly along another man’s cock like a starved, crazed whore. Was this him, the Imperator Caesar?

He drew back a little and stared at Marcus’ cock. A bitten off groan sounded above him, Marcus’ thighs spasmed, his hands twitched where they grabbed Gaius’ shoulder sash and tunic. The cock in his hands leaked profusely; clear, vicious fluids beaded from the flushed head, running down the entire length, soaking his fingers. He stepped out of his body to imagine it from above: the Imperator Caesar on his knees, maybe dressed in full toga, laurel wreath crowning his blond head, taking his general’s cock inside his mouth, licking it, slurping pre-come as though it was the sweetest wine of the gods. It made his head spin.

He shuddered and leaned in to nuzzle the wet length again, smearing the liquid onto his skin, over his cheeks, over his necks, over his lips. When the head touched his slightly parted mouth, Marcus made a strangled sound from above him, and suddenly large hands grabbed onto his hair, tugging it almost painfully backwards. He looked up. Their eyes met. Marcus looked half-crazed, an animal, a primordial spirit about to consume him.

Keeping eye contact with his lover, Gaius opened his mouth and took the weeping head between his lips. Marcus tensed, ropes of muscles held stiff by sheer force of will, dark eyes never leaving his.

Gaius moaned around the cock in his mouth, taking in deeper, relishing the salty, bitter taste, rolling his tongue against the slit, hoping to gather more of the heady drug, needing it.

Whore. You earned your adopted name on your hands and knees. Always knew this was how you snared the old boy. Why else would he notice a thing like you?

Gaius snarled at the ghostly voice. He squeezed his eyes shut, squashed down the churning shame in his gut, and swallowed the cock until it hit the back of his throat, heady and overpowering. He wanted Marcus to debase him, right here in a foreigner’s house, proving everything he had known about himself right.

‘Gaius, Gaius,’ Marcus’ voice broke through the haze in his head. He blinked and opened his eyes. Marcus was looking straight at him — what a picture he must be making, disheveled, kneeling, dazed from a cock in his mouth. Ah, if only the Parthians saw him now, would they still consider him the uncrowned leader of Rome? What about the Senate?

Marcus’ eyes flickered, the muscles in his arms budged with the effort to not grab onto Gaius’ head and fuck his mouth. Why wasn’t he? Gaius swallowed again, taking more than he could, choking a little.

He heard Marcus grit his teeth, and a moment later, hands yanked him to his feet, the cock slipping out of his mouth with a loud pop. Strong arms held him in an iron grip; familiar lips caught his in a strangely sweet kiss. He kept trying to invite the tongue to plunder, to take, but it insisted on caressing his in a tangled dance, adamant but gentle. He sighed against it, going limp.

‘Must you?’ he murmured into Marcus’ mouth as the tongue withdrew. Sometimes he hated how attuned to each other they were. Sometimes. Rarely sometimes.

‘Yes.’ Marcus whispered back, biting his lower lip in punishment. He hitched and squirmed, arousal still roaring in his blood, but Marcus held him flush against his solid chest — gods, even that iron control was turning him on. He might have issues, but he was still horny, damn it.

‘I was hoping you would come on my face. I always love it when you do.’ he said, his own vulgar words sending a thrill through him. Marcus closed his eyes as if agonised, a shudder rolling through his shoulders.

‘You are a menace, sweetheart.’ he groaned, then opened his eyes to lock onto Gaius’ face, the desire in them knocking Gaius’ breath out of him. ‘But when I come on your face, I want you to relish it. I want you stupid with euphoria, chasing after droplets of my release with your tongue. I would use you, even debase you — gods, I want it, terrible man that I am — but I would not flog you, even at your own behest.’

This man, Gaius hated him. He hated the way their souls were so interwoven, so in tune despite all appearances. He hated the way Marcus would just know, the way he accepted, the way he cared without judgement.

‘I still need your dick in me.’ he said, determined to at least not lose the game of who folds under embarrassment first.

Marcus laughed, the sound so soft and dear it squeezed his heart. His lover bent down to kiss his neck again, biting the same spot he had sucked on earlier — hell, he was really going to have to try that stupid cosmetic powder that Oxyartes had thrust upon him. He sighed, baring his neck for better access. The drag of stubble was so good; every touch lighting the fire in his veins anew; every kiss sending a tremble to his heart.

He carded his hands through Marcus’ beloved dark curls, whispering a soft word into his hair.


End file.
